


Death Does Not Concern Us

by nischi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Professor AU, Professor Hannibal, Student Will Graham, Teacher x Student, Teacher-Student Relationship, University AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 10:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5044708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nischi/pseuds/nischi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal is a Professor at Oxford. Will is not.</p><p>Oneshot teacher/student au</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Does Not Concern Us

**Author's Note:**

> you know when you start writing something but you need a break from it so you write something else? This is that. 
> 
> Extremely un-beta'd, sorry.

"This will prove entertaining, Alana, don't worry." Hannibal grinned. He lifted the wine glass to his lips, breathing in the taste. 

"You know I love these parties, Hannibal, but was inviting him really a good idea?" She indicated the slight man in an ill-fitting blazer standing beside a drinks table, awkwardly cradling a glass of punch. Hannibal always provided the punch. 'A secret recipe' he would grin. He refused to ever give anybody said recipe. 'The wrong hands would spoil it,' he laughed. 

"Watch the vultures circle, Alana. They all wait with baited breath, none quite the leader they thought themselves. Nobody has made a move, though they all want to." The professor relaxed his shoulders, lifting his head and closing his eyes. He could feel the tension in the room; the malodour of the young men. A fresh face. A new challenge. 

The punch left a fresh flush on his cheeks, raising the glass once more in an attempt to look at ease. It didn't work. 

He stood out from the crowd, though. Curls untamed, unlike the rest of the Etonian fellows. He had not grown up with this, that much was clear. That made him an outlier. 

One or two of the rabble got close enough to touch him, but nobody made any impact. Hannibal stood still, the other side of the hall, watching. 

He had invited the poor boy after a tutorial group ran late. He saw the definition in his heritage, the sharp lines and the weary eyes. The hunger for approval and a quiet thirst for notoriety. Hannibal wanted to watch it rise. To touch it. Lick it. 

He was surprised the boy had turned up. His party mostly catered for the final-year students - those about to hand in their dissertations and their grad gowns for an executive position in their fathers' businesses. Will Graham was just about to finish his second year; not quite a lamb but a young fledgling, nose whetted by the world. 

He was always to be found before lectures in the same dark spot, nose in a book. Hannibal tried to make out a title but never quite managed; asking him would scare the poor boy away. He never seemed very fond of making direct contact. Until one day, after their seminar on the post-Victorian breakdown of the social hierarchy and the lack of societal conformity thereafter. Will was the last to pack up his notes, too many sheets scattered around and not enough hands to pick them up. 

Professor Lecter offered a hand. 

A thankful grimace, the notable swallowing - Hannibal could practically  _touch_  the discomfort. 

"Did you manage to understand everything, Will?" He asked the boy. The other students had already left the small seminar room, run off to their next class. Clearly in no hurry, Will had lingered to ask a question about the required reading for the next lecture. 

Hannibal smiled and answered dutifully, nodding in interest as Will explained what he was having difficulty with. The professor offered his office hours, to help with any small matter. 

"Please, I insist. Do come by."

And he did. At first, just to ask a clarification on the use of journals as a primary source with no definitive back up resources. Upon entering the professor's study, Will marvelled at the shelves lined with antiquities. The tomes and volumes of encyclopaedias, the daily accounts of generals at war, the autobiographies of heroes and saints. Hannibal asked about the book he saw Will read from, only to learn it was one of Greek tales. Written in its original language, he was attempting to translate for himself - there were scribbles in the margins in pencil, too faint to leave marks on such a precious piece. The spine cracked as he flipped through the pages, impressed by the young student's work. 

"Have you ever read the Iliad?" He asked. "A marvellous tale." 

Will shook his head. "I was more interested in Aesop and his fables, Professor." 

"A shame. The trials of Achilles and Patroclus are ones not appreciated by the common mass, though still strike a chord through the very fabric of our society." He paused for a moment, bringing a pensive finger to his chin, before asking, "Say, at the end of the year I host a little gala for the graduating students. Tell me, Will; would you perhaps wish to rub elbows with those who will soon be the big names in the society pages?" 

Will blanched. He lowered his head, hiding his eyes with the frames of his oversized spectacles. "I, uhm, I would, uhh..." He stuttered, tripping over his thoughts. How could he politely decline?

"Think of it as a study in character. You have a few weeks to think about it, it is not til the 23rd. However, I would love to see you there." Hannibal looked thoughtfully out the window in his private study. "There are few people I invite before their fours years are over, and fewer, still, that I invite personally." 

Will made his excuses and left. It was not the last time he would stop by; Hannibal found the boy asking less and less pertinent questions about the assigned materials - they would discuss philosophies and playwrights and --

One day, Will gifted Hannibal a book. It was an unimportant gift; a copy of a play Will had mentioned to the professor that he hadn't read. In truth, he had been to see the play in theatre many years ago, but when he arrived at his office after a third year international relations lecture, he greeted Will outside his door. 

"I'm sorry, you're probably busy so I'll just give you this and go but, I thought, maybe, you would... Here, I've got to get to class." He thrust the thin book into Hannibal's hand, brushing it lightly as he hurried to leave. 

"Will!" Hannibal shouted. The boy turned on his heels, half way out the faculty building. "Thank you," he whispered. 

The professor sat down his briefcase on his desk, and cracked the spine on the play. It was a new copy, but there was a small crease running up the back. Curious, Hannibal lifted the book. 

A post-it fell out. 

"See you on the 23rd. 

\- WG"

Looking at the boy in the suit, acting the part of the hoity socialite, Hannibal suppressed a small laugh. It was cute. 

Alana glared at him. "You know, I'm starting to get a bit fed up of all the testosterone in these parties. The least you could do is pick some of the students with class, hannibal." Alana smoothed the folds in the fabric of her elegant navy gown. It trailed to her ankles, showing off the beautiful heels she had bought when visiting Europe last Christmas. Painted red lips stained the bowl of her wine glass. 

One or two of the undergraduates were paying more attention to Alana than to Will, which Hannibal cursed under his breath. He was disappointed in his judgement of character. 

These parties were a test of brotherhood. Like those of the secret clubs - the societies and the fraternities and the cults thereof - the party Hannibal held in the Grand Ballroom in one of the older buildings on campus was in such high esteem that those who were invited told no one. Those who were seen to be talking about it were not well-to-do enough to be invited. It was a well-known secret. 

Often the parties would dissolve into something more passionate. On occasion, it had been known to finish with merely a quiet and polite end to the conversations. Once, Hannibal remembered fondly, there was an Englishman who had damn near started an orgy under the champagne tree. 

Hedonism at its finest. 

And it was thusly that he watched the vultures; the schoolboys and the men, circle their prey. Daring somebody to make a move, Hannibal was remiss to find nobody did. One boy had run his hand down the sleeve of Will's grey blazer. The boy shuddered, and a small flush creeped across his face. The boy then, perhaps now too shy, walked away with another glass of punch. 

It was up to him, then, perhaps. 

He swallowed the last remaining sip of his merlot, and gracefully waltzed across the hall. His footsteps were silenced by the thick soles of his Oxfords. 

The chatter in the room died down and the ensemble playing softly in an alcove somewhere became more clear as the professor made his way towards his student. 

He held out a white gloved hand, bowed his head, and asked, "May I have this dance?" 

Will's face turned a dark hue, as he attempted to place his empty glass on the table. It was a struggle - the punch was  _really_  strong. Hannibal had made sure of it. After all, if you're going to enjoy a drink or two, you might as well enjoy the finest. 

Will reluctantly accepted the professor's hand. He was pulled firmly into a waltz grip. Unsure where to put his own hands (on the shoulder, like the lady? Or the waist, like the man?) he was great fully guided by Hannibal. Both men held on to each other's waists, their clasped hands outstretched in front. 

Stepping in time to the music, Hannibal led Will in a slow Viennese waltz. They both stared at each other for a while. Neither men wished to break the spell of silence, contemplating what was to come. 

"All the guests in this room had their eye on you, you know." Hannibal spoke gently in Will's ear. The words caressed his cheek, a blush riding harder. Hannibal could smell the sickly sweet aroma of the alcohol, coursing through his system. "None of them were brave enough to make a move. Had you let them, every single person in this room would have bedded you."  

Will pulled back, surprised by his professor's words. "N-no, they don't know me, I wouldn't --"

"It matters not, dear Will. For now the deer has been caught by the hunter." 

He leaned forward, touching lips. Hannibal continued to guide Will around the dance floor, but he had moved one of his hands to the boy's face now. Tilting it gently, he made room for himself, licking at Will's bottom lip. The student shuddered, opening his mouth. Teeth crashed, Hannibal claiming Will's mouth. 

The two men had stopped dancing, and as the waltz continued in the background, all eyes were on them. 

 

 

"I can't believe you, Hannibal. You know, you have so much faith in these kids that nobody is going to talk. I don't know how you could possibly have that much trust!" Alana sighed at the professor. She had decided to chastise him over his morning coffee, knowing his routine and that he would be sitting quite perfunctorily in his leatherback chair in his office until 8:45am. 

"Really? Right in front of all those students?!" 

"Alana - soon to be  _ex_  students," he clarified. 

"As if that makes a difference???" 

He raised the mug to his mouth. "How many of those students do you think would tell their fathers - let alone anybody else - about the sort of things they themselves get up to at these parties." He sighed. "An unwritten agreement. Anonymity and acceptance." 

Alana was quite clearly not finished with her rant, and so Hannibal listened to her. He nodded when he deemed it necessary, and looked suitably chastised once she had finished. 

"That poor boy still has another two years of torment from you, I hope you know what you're doing." Alana said as she walked out the door. 

Hannibal was surprised to see Will looking slightly worse for wear, as he walked into his 10am lecture. The boy did not carry his hefty Greek tome, but instead sat bleary-eyed and hunched. 

Hannibal began his lecture on the nature of the Romanised languages, and the ever-changing nuances of the tongue. After almost an hour of theory and history, he decided to end his lecture with an example. 

"Achilles and Patroclus." 

Will's head shot up, albeit a little slow with the reflexes. 

"Many scholars are in great debate about these warriors. Some say the closest of friends, some say lovers. The subtle flair of the society they belonged to, however, has been lost. One can never be sure of the reliability of the narrator - how much are they telling you? How much has been filtered out?" 

He stepped towards the front bench. Starting at the left-hand side of the theatre, he slowly paced. 

"Sure, we all have," Step. "Our own thoughts," Step. "On the matter." Step. 

"Many have tried to define love." Step. "You see it in different forms," Step. "Throughout history." Step. 

He paused. 

He was now standing directly in front of Will Graham. 

The boy was holding his head in his hands, as if it were to suddenly unhinge from his neck. 

"The Victorians had their own societal procedures involving romance. The Greeks, too. Why, nowadays, merely 100 years later the Victorian ideals are out the window." 

"It's interesting, though, isn't it. How the definitions of self and being and emotions such as love can blur." 

He grinned to his audience. Pulling up his shirt sleeve, he checked the time. Looking up into the stalls he began to dismiss the class. 

"I'll see you all tomorrow at 2pm for a continuation of last week's prose," he called. As he let his sleeve slip back over his watch, Hannibal casually leaned on the desk in front of him. For balance. 

To those in the stalls, that was how it would appear. 

To Will, however. Will felt the electric him of skin contact, as the professor drew his finger across the soft skin of Will's arm. 

Will stood up sharply, making haste to pack away his things. 

Hannibal was ready, though. 

He followed the boy down the corridor. 

"I'm going to be late for my next class," Will hissed. "Please stop following me." 

In trying to lose sight of Hannibal, Will had inadvertently tried to take a short cut through an empty corridor. Pushing through a set of double doors, he could've sworn the last time he walked down here it got him to the right place. 

Now, though, the hallway was a dead end. And it was empty. 

He faltered, one hand grasping his shoulder bag tightly. 

Suddenly, he felt a hand press up against his back. Will was pushed flat against a stone wall, chest flush against the uncovered stonework. 

A soft, sure hand pulled his face around; just far enough that Hannibal could lean in and steal a kiss. 

"I believe you are going to be late for your next lecture, Will. As am I. You seem to have gotten us lost." 

Hannibal let the boy go. Will turned frantically, checking the hallway for any sign of witnesses. 

Hannibal pressed another gentle kiss to the corner of Will's jaw, muttering quietly under his breath. 

"Like Achilles and Patroclus," he whispered. "I feel the lines between you and I are beginning to blur." 


End file.
